Demon's Game
by NightWolfMoon
Summary: England has been troubled by his screw-up trying to summon a demon those years ago and has finally decided to try again. Only, this demon has a familiar face and is much more out of control than England could have anticipated. When the demon escapes, will England be able to trap him and send him back to his own deminsion? Or will the demon's game lead to destruction?
1. Chapter 1

While something told England that this was a horrible idea, he lit the last of the black candles placed around the room before going to finish the summoning circle. His long, black cloak floated about him as he walked, making him look otherworldly as he whispered the ancient words, many of which he no longer even knew the meanings of.

Hood up so it cast a thin shadow over his face, Arthur stood between a tall candelabra holding black tapers and a stand with a dish holding loose incense. The vervain was supposed call to the dark parts of the spirit realm, while the dragon's blood should help aid in protection.

Hands out in front of him, fingers outstretched, England closed his eyes as he kept chanting, voice almost like a song. The notes seemed to weave through and around the summoning circle like an intricate web that grew stronger with each line.

The air seemed to grow heavy, and England's heart pounded as he felt energy pull away from him, his very aura twisting into thin threads to reinforce the web he was making. As he opened his eyes, the chalk on the concrete floor glowed, getting brighter and brighter until his emerald eyes began to water from pain.

Yet, he refused to even blink, the words now coming through clenched teeth.

His arms began to shake. He could see the light begin to coalesce, the chant making it become a solid as it formed a dome over the circle, and large enough to keep in the demon England was very sure he was capable of summoning.

The blast was unexpected, all of the candles going out at once for some time as England tried to push himself back onto his feet, hood falling from his head.

"Dammit!" he hissed, his hand finding the hot coal that had been in the dish for the incense.

The candles relit in unison, and England clutched his burnt hand to his chest when an all-too familiar voice made him jump:

"Mother_fucker_! Dammit, England!"

Eyes wide as rage at both himself and the twit American pumped through his veins, Arthur leapt to his feet as he whirled around, cloak flying up at the motion.

Inside the circle, shadows cast by the candles made the man's coloring darker, but his height, the bomber jacket, and that cowlick… It was definitely Amer—

There was a loud **bang** as a wooden bat hit the floor. Arthur's hands began to shake as the rage began to flush from his system, replaced by apprehension.

Something was wrong.

The bat held many nails at the wide end, and even in the shadows, the fact blood stained the metal and wood was unmistakable.

"I _finally _had that damned Russki right where I wanted him!" the younger nation roared, throwing something else onto the floor.

It was a cigarette.

America didn't smoke. He hated the smell and always claimed cigarettes tasted like crap.

This man was turned around as he ranted, but England could now see that it wasn't just the shadows. This man's hair was dark brown, and there was blood splatter on his neck, sleeves, and tattered jeans. His sneakers were stained in a way that suggested he had recently been standing in a pool of blood.

_What the bloody hell have I done?_ England asked himself as he clutched his hurt hand even harder, though he no longer felt any pain, his whole body beginning to tremble.

Turning around and eyes squeezed shut as he scowled, the dark-haired man continued his rant: "And you better not be fucking trying to shove those damned cupcakes—"

When the man opened his eyes, they almost went as wide as Arthur's.

The eyes were red as the blood staining his clothes and bat.

Eyebrows rising, the stranger remarked, "You're not Oliver. Sure look like a hell lot like him, though…."

Those thin lips twisted into a smirk Arthur hated seeing on a face identical to America's. It made the rage return, and the part of England's mind that had been telling him this was a bad idea was now telling him to banish this man—and fast.

Unfortunately, it was rare he actually listened to that voice, his curiosity oftentimes winning him over.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?" the Brit demanded, hands going to his side as he straightened himself and his eyes narrowed.

He was in charge here.

Taking off the sunglasses that had been resting just above the tip of his nose, the America look-a-like replied in an arrogant tone, "Allen. Feel free to call me Al."

It sounded much too close to 'Alfred' for England's liking.

"That what your friends call you?" he snarled, watching as Allen secured his sunglasses atop his head and bent down to grab his bat—never breaking eye contact.

The chuckle was anything but friendly.

"Guess you could call 'em that," said Allen.

He sauntered over towards the edge of the circle, but pale green light still separated him from England. The way he looked into Arthur's eyes sent chill after chill down his spine, yet, he forced himself to stand his ground.

"So this must be one of those 'other worlds' Oliver likes to go on about," murmured Allen, eyes now moving around the basement. "Weird, Oliver usually does this sort of crap in his kitchen."

So this was a version of America in a different dimension, and apparently this 'Oliver' was a different version of Arthur. Not only that, but Allen seemed very aware of Oliver's use of magic, whereas Alfred had no idea Arthur practiced.

"So you know of other worlds?" asked Arthur.

He should really get started on sending Allen back, but curiosity was getting the better of him. In all his years, he had never summoned someone from a different dimension. Hell, last time he'd tried, he'd ended up with _Russia_!

"Sure." Allen shrugged, lifting up his bat so it rested on one shoulder, blood starting to drip from the crooked nails. "In exchange for… an ingredient for his cupcakes, he sent Steve somewhere for me and even gave me a way to watch the fun."

Something about that made even more shivers, heavier this time, slide down England's spine, and he swallowed. He wasn't sure if it had to do with whatever this ingredient was or whatever had been done with this Steve character, but England was very sure he would rather not know. Sometimes ignorance truly was bliss.

"Looking a little pale, there," said Allen with a smirk and cock of the head. "Hope you're not losing your…" He stepped back and drew back the bat, knees bent and elbows out. "Concentration."

Eyes wide again, England shot up his hands, ready to begin strengthening the barrier when the bat struck the dome.

The force made England slide back several inches, and he struggled to keep his balance before trying again, noticing the scowl on Allen's face. Hitting the barrier like that should have sent pain through his body, the equivalent of getting hit by several Taser guns.

Yet, Allen somehow managed to stay on his feet and swing at the barrier again before England could even begin reweaving the spell.

The dome shattered, and England gasped for breath as he fell to his knees, feeling as if lighting had struck him through his crown, all the way to his feet.

The candles were out once more, and the light created by the spell was gone, destroyed by Allen's brute force.

"Shoulda banished me when you had the chance," laughed Allen as darkness began to overtake England's vision. "See ya, later. This should be fun…"

Since the Brit wasn't going to stay out-cold for long, Allen made sure to get out of there, though the darkness caused him to trip a few times before he finally found the stairs.

_It's like he lives for making a spooky atmosphere_, thought the brunette as he scowled, his foot hitting the door when he reached the top.

It opened into a spacious den, all spick-and-span, reminding Allen more of Kuro's place than Oliver's. The blue-eyed psycho left his place so helter-skelter, it even made Allen want to clean up some. The England in this world, though, seemed to pretty much be OCD.

Holding his bat out, Allen knocked over a vase in the center of the coffee table, water and lilies spilling as porcelain fragments scattered. He knocked down pictures, pausing for a moment to snatch one up from the broken glass and stuff it into his pocket. He headed for the front door, and he knocked over another vase plus some knick-knacks on a long, narrow table pushed up against one wall.

Outside, the sun was actually out, so Allen put on his tinted glasses, bat coming up to rest on his shoulder as he descended the three steps leading from the door to the walk past the front yard.

The house looked to be the only one for some distance, and up ahead on the narrow road, a black car headed this way, so Allen ducked behind a nearby tree, a forest surrounding the left side of the manor.

"Oh, _Angleterre_ left his door open," mused the man that had come out of the cab.

He was a dead ringer for Jean-Luc back home, though his eyes and hair were different. This guy also looked like he'd spent probably an hour or more getting ready, not a blond hair out of place, clothes clean and pressed, stubble looking like it was trimmed to purposefully give him a somewhat devil-may-care edge, and fair skin scrubbed and practically glowing.

This was a man that would probably look at Jean-Luc, who preferred to smoke or drink in the darkness of his home in clothes he could wear for days at a time, in utter disgust.

He'd be fun to play with for a bit.

Stopping upon passing the tree, France blinked and looked at Allen in confusion.

"America? You should be arriving tomorrow with Mathieu…"

The suitcase fell from his grip as Allen stepped forward from the shadows, smirking at the shocked and horrified look that came over the Frenchman's face.

"_Mon dieu_…," murmured France, taking a step back as he crossed himself.

"_He_ ain't helpin' ya," said Allen, smirk deepening. "But I'm in a good mood, so if you want, go ahead and pray a little. I got time."

France ran.

"Smart man!" Allen laughed, chasing after him.

With a single swing, Allen broke through the front door, which France had tried to slam in his face.

"_Angleterre_!" shrieked the blond man, jumping over the vase fragments and vaulting over the couch. "_Mon dieu, c'est ta faute_! I just know it!"

He screamed as Allen's bat made contact with his back, sending him sprawling onto the floor, one hand shakily lifting to the light blue cushions of the shorter couch so he could push himself up.

Allen kicked him in the side so he'd roll over, grinning at the pained look on France's face as his arms shook. Blood was already beginning to stain the carpet beneath him, the chipped and rusted nails having torn at his salmon-colored shirt and fair skin. Allen's sunglasses began to slip down the bridge of his nose, and France's sky blue eyes widened upon seeing those crimson orbs staring back at them.

"Think you'd never seen red eyes before," Allen chuckled.

"_Démon_…," whispered France, rolling out of the way just in time when the bat came down where his head had once been.

"Aw…," drawled Allen in mock-hurt as he took another swing, only managing to knick the man on the shoulder. "You really shouldn't call people names. It hurts their feelings."

When France managed to get to his feet and lunge at Allen, the brunette dodged, barking a laugh when his head hit the cabinets just below the flat-screen TV.

"So you _do_ have some fight in you!" Allen guffawed. "For a while I thought you'd even surrender if I was a fucking Girl Scout sellin' cookies!"

Getting up, France gritted his teeth and clutched at his wounded shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers.

"_Tu ne gagneras pas_…" France lunged again, hands out like he was going to grab the bat.

Smirking, Allen let him and then wrenched him off with a half-step forward and sideways motion, putting him off-balance.

"_Je gagne_," the brunette mocked as he brought down his shoulder onto the Frenchman's back, where his neck met his shoulders.

There was a gagging sound as France went down onto the low table, a few of the porcelain fragments slicing into the skin of his hands and wrists.

From downstairs, Allen heard something metal fall over, signaling that England was now awake, so the American just gave a half-hearted swing down onto France's back, making him fall onto his side on the ground, eyes half-lidded and pupils so large, the irises were barely visible.

Time to find someone else to play with.

As soon as England was conscious, he tried to find the staircase but instead found the candelabra and sent it falling to the ground, tapers rolling across the concrete floor. The blond man let out a whispered oath and made a mental map of where in the basement he was, quickly able to find the staircase and get into the living room.

Once there, Arthur fell, heart feeling as if it had stopped when his emerald eyes found France bleeding on his floor. His back and one shoulder held deep lacerations, but the smaller ones were already beginning to heal.

Taking off his cloak, England rushed into his kitchen and grabbed a salve from one of the cabinets. It was in an aluminum tin, and England took it to France, kneeling by him.

The smell of peppermint, tea tree, and lavender was strong, and Francis twitched when the translucent substance touched his back, likely stinging as it seeped into the cuts. He also dabbed some on his hand, where it had touched the charcoal tablet down in the basement, the skin red and raw.

It would speed up the healing process and help with any pain, but when Arthur moved on to his shoulder, Francis had come to enough to sit up, hands grabbing England's shirt collar as the Brit ended up on the floor, under the seething Frenchman.

"Who _was_ that?" he demanded, pupils slowly shrinking down to a normal size.

Not even bothering to shove France off of him like he normally would, England responded, "His name is Allen, apparently. He's a different version of Alfred."

Hands still shaking even after he let Arthur go and got off of him, Francis said, "He… he looked so much like him…, but his eyes…" One of his hands curled into a tight fist. "I swear, you know you are going to hell and are adamant on bringing it here so the rest of us can suffer with you."

France was one of the few nations that knew Arthur practiced the Craft—he'd discovered this after seeing the fey playing around in Arthur's study that one day. He didn't like it, though there were many things either could say he hated about the other.

Pushing himself to his feet, Arthur looked around the room. _Could look worse, I guess_. "We need to find him. Find him so I can banish him before anyone else gets hurt."

France said nothing, just sat there on the floor as England headed back into the kitchen. He hadn't done a locator spell in years. Hopefully, it would work, and fast. Germany and Italy would be arriving in a few hours, followed by Russia. Tomorrow, Japan and China would arrive early in the morning and America and Canada closer to noon.

The locator spell worked best using an object that belonged to the person, but that obviously wasn't happening, so he would have to improvise.

Allen was a different version of Alfred, right?

So…

England headed for his storage closet down the hall in the back of the manor.

In London, Allen stomped down on his cigarette. Strapped to his back was a long, narrow bag his bat currently occupied, and he'd relieved a guy of his clean jeans and button-up grey shirt. Puddles had washed his sneakers mostly-clean, rain only now beginning to recede.

It had come in unexpectedly, and by the way the sky looked, more was sure to come.

Rubbing his hands together, Allen walked out of the alleyway, heading down a street past some shops. He hadn't killed a man with just his hands in some time, having grown very attached to his favorite weapon.

Well, it hadn't been _just_ his hands.

Allen's victim had been carrying a pocket knife, so the brunette had decided to take a page out of Luciano's book and had used it to cut out the middle-aged man's tongue so he wouldn't be able to scream for help. Allen had then stuffed the muscle into the dark-haired man's throat, making him suffocate on it as he burned him along his neck and chest with the end of his cigarette.

Along with the knife, Allen had also kept the notes in his victim's wallet. The money didn't look all that different from Oliver's, but this land sure did.

As bad as Allen's and James's homes were, Europe back in his world was almost always dark, the pollution and smoke choking out most of the sunlight. Even Viktor would complain about his beloved General Winter trying to freeze him solid.

Eyes out for a new victim to pass the time, Allen spotted a couple that made his head tilt in puzzlement.

The shorter man wearing a black shirt and blue tie was skipping, one hand clutching the hand of a much taller blond man walking behind him with long strides.

The taller of the two looked down at his auburn-haired friend with a small scowl, though Allen could see a hint of red in his cheeks that suggested he secretly liked having his friend pull him along like that. Or maybe he just liked having him touch him in general. Allen didn't know nor care.

"Looks like Luciano and Lutz," Allen murmured, eyes narrowing from behind his sunglasses.

Hurrying, Allen fell into step a good distance behind the two—not too close to get caught easily but not too far to lose them.

The shorter man sounded like he was singing some nonsense tune, and he could go against Oliver with that happy-go-lucky prance of his.

It seemed impossible that this man could be tied, in any way, to Luciano, the man that had practically led Europe to the state it was in now back in Allen's world. Luciano had led with Lutz by his side, taking over with brute force as his twin brother, Flavio, worked the underworld, causing other nations to fall from within.

Kuro had helped as well, of course, Allen scowling as his heart pumped rage through his body at the memory of what that Jap had done to his home. His scars still ached.

At one point, this world's Germany straightened, head turning one way and the other, his icy blue eyes scanning his surroundings. Allen made sure to try and keep out of sight, using the files of people walking this way and that to keep himself hidden.

However, when Germany whispered something into Italy's ear, making him stop singing and cock his head to one side in bewilderment, Allen knew the jig was up.

Still, though, he kept following. A true villain didn't run away like some pansy; he stalked his prey until the end.

A cab was hailed, and the luggage went in along with Italy, who had a worried look on his face, though it was hard to tell, seeing as it looked like his eyes were closed. He said something, and the German shook his head as he replied.

The Italian hung his head but got into the cab, and after it drove off, Germany kept walking before turning into an alley, Allen smiling as he followed.

Allen took out one of his cigarettes and stuck it into his mouth as he grabbed his lighter from the other pocket. "Guess I need to work on my stalking skills."

Germany whirled around in shock at the sound of his voice, Allen lighting his cigarette before putting the lighter away.

The tall man blinked a few times, and Allen found it odd seeing a Germany that wasn't riddled with scars—many given to him by his so-called ally.

"Amer… _Nein_." Germany shook his head and stood up straighter, regaining composure. "Who are you?"

The brunette took the bag off of his back and unzipped it, holding onto his cigarette with his teeth as he blew smoke out around it. "Call me Al. You can thank England for calling me here."

"Why do you look like America?" Germany demanded, eyes narrowing.

"'Cause I _am_ America, bitch!"

God, that look of confusion, shock, and horror just wasn't ever going to get old.

Germany dodged Allen's blow easily, and it was obvious from the get-go he would be a _much_ more formidable opponent than France.

Good. Every villain needed a challenge.

_**I plan on this being a pretty short story. I'll honestly be pretty shocked if it goes on for more than five chapters, but I've been debating some sort of continuation, so we'll see. :)**_


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur's hand shook somewhat as he held the cottonwood stick that was just a few inches longer than his forearm. There was a carving of an equal-armed cross, and on the other end was an equal-armed cross but in a circle.

There was also a spiral pattern, what looked like waves, and crossed arrows. The paint had been chipping off for years, the bands red, white, and blue. Blue jay feathers marked one end, almost like a crown for the stick.

Jaw clenched, England carried it into the kitchen, France looking up.

"_C'est quoi cela_?" he inquired, starting to look a little better, though still in some shock.

"It's a prayer stick," replied England in a low voice, placing it gently onto the marble counter as he opened cabinets to get out the correct ingredients. "America gave it to me… a long time ago."

Blinking slowly, France gave a nod. He probably had a prayer stick as well that had been made by Canada. That past was buried deeply, though. No one ever brought it up, especially not the North American twins.

Silence stretched on as Arthur mixed the concoction, and at some point, France had gone out to retrieve his suitcase so he could put it into his room.

"Almost done," Arthur announced, putting the heat on low before going to wash his hands and retrieve his pendulum from the basement.

Coming back up, he heard a car pull up in front of the house, and the Brit swore, seeing that he would need a new door—least of his problems at the moment, but it still pissed him off.

"_Waaaaahhhhh_!" cried the newcomer, tears pouring from his seemingly eternally-closed eyes. "_Doitsu_! _Doitsu_ needs help!"

He ran into the house and dropped luggage in the hallway as the cab drove off, and France caught him in an embrace, Italy's arms wrapping tightly around his waist. It made the blond nation gasp in pain, but the brunette seemed to be crying too hard to notice, trembling.

Francis got his arms off of him and brought him over to the short couch as Arthur took the concoction off of the hob, turning off the heat.

"What is it?" asked France gently. "What about Germany?"

Wiping at his tears with shaking hands, Italy sobbed, "G-German-y s-say he-he thou-ought so-some-one w-was foll-owing us…."

France turned and looked at England. "_Angleterre_…"

"I realize," Arthur mumbled, dipping the bottom of the prayer stick into the mixture of oils, herbs, and a few ingredients he would never mention he possessed aloud. "Italy, I am very sure Germany can take care of himself, and I am working on something to catch the man that was following you."

Looking like he was starting to calm down at the assurance, Feliciano asked in a squeaky voice, "Who w-was i-it?"

"_Un démon_," muttered France through clenched teeth.

Taking out the prayer stick and dipping the dark wood pendulum into the mixture next, England replied, "Close enough. He says his name is Allen. He's a version of America from a different dimension."

"One where morals apparently do not exist," France muttered as Italy began to look scared again.

"Mr. America? But he is nice! Mostly!" he protested. "He would not hurt Germany, right?"

"This is a different _Amérique_," said France, getting down on one knee so he could meet Italy's eyes—as much as one could, anyway. "He has brown hair and red eyes, and he will attack. It is good Germany sent you here. He should be fine, though."

France tried for a smile and ruffled the smaller man's auburn hair, but Feliciano still looked confused. Like most of the European nations (possibly all, even), Italy's past was steeped in witchcraft, and there were some traditions the brunette still held onto that looked like such a tradition kept alive no matter how much he claimed it to be part of his Catholic faith. Yet, Italy no longer believed in anything like witchcraft from what England could see, so this was something hard to wrap his mind around.

Once the pendulum had been in the concoction long enough, Arthur tied the thin chain around the prayer stick and walked into the den.

"How is that—"

France stopped speaking when the pendulum began to swing, finally pointing towards the door.

"It worked," Arthur whispered, part awe and part relief. "France, stay here with Italy. I'll go after Allen."

"_Bonne chance_," said Francis with a nod.

Germany cursed himself for being as tired and wounded as he was. The nails had taken skin from his stomach, blood staining his button-up, light blue shirt.

There were similar lacerations on his right forearm from when he had tried to wrench the bat away, a beat too slow. His arm felt broken as well, and blood dripped into his left eye from a wound in his head where a nail had nicked him—Germany had barely dodged having his head bashed in instead.

Sunglasses slipping down the psycho's nose to reveal crimson eyes, Allen looked winded as well. Several of his fingers were broken, and the blow to his chest had been no joke, Ludwig nearly getting the better of him after plowing his knee just below where his heart should be. He'd felt the **crunch** of ribs breaking, yet Allen stood, smirk still in place, though it now wavered.

The cigarette was now on the ground, but Ludwig could smell the foul stench on Allen's clothes and breath whenever he got close.

"Haven't had a good challenge like this in a long time!" exclaimed Allen in a gasp, eyes shining in a way that made Germany's stomach lurch.

He sounded like an excited child, and Germany could not fathom how anyone could become so twisted.

Dodging Allen's lunge forward, Germany turned to get behind him. However, Allen twisted himself to the side, stumbling only for a fraction of a second before jumping towards the blond man again. There was barely enough time to get away, Ludwig grunting as he clenched his jaw, skin tearing on his right forearm, too close to the major artery for comfort.

The two seemed to be evenly matched, but, finally, Germany was able to wrench away the bat, but just as he twisted to grab the brunette by the throat, pain flared through his torso, exploding from his side all the way up to just under his armpit.

His eyes bugged out, blond locks falling over his forehead as he crumpled to the ground. His side felt to be on fire, the raging inferno exploding through the rest of his body. The blade left him as he fell, Allen grinning down at him as he held up the bloody pocket knife.

"That was fun," the man purred, bending down to wipe the blade off on Ludwig's kakis. "We should do this again."

Germany tried to push himself back up, grunting in pain as Allen stomped down on his fingers, going to retrieve his bat and black bag.

"_Du Miststück_," growled Germany, left eye blinded by his own blood.

He tried pushing himself up again but only fell over, Allen now gone.

Black stars ringing Ludwig's vision, the blond nation thought, _At least Italy is safe_.

Damn, Allen's chest hurt like hell. He had to work to keep from hugging himself as he walked, wanting to find a good place to rest for a while.

He would need some time to rest up, but he would have to keep moving. England would be trying to search for him, he was sure.

Within twenty to thirty minutes, Allen found a place in the back of an alley, and while his fingers were already starting to heal after he'd popped them back into place, it would take a good while before his ribs recovered. At least he could heal quickly in this world. He couldn't think of why he wouldn't, but it was good news nonetheless.

"Nice jacket" came a slurred voice from the shadows, and Allen cracked an eye open.

_One more game won't kill me_, thought the man with a smirk that made the homeless man start as if rethinking his plan. _I'm the villain after all!_

London always felt like hell to drive through, and having to figure out where to turn and turn around when the pendulum moved from its place in the passenger seat, prayer stick propped up, didn't make it _any_ easier. The spell didn't account for road laws.

It also seemed like Allen was on the move with all the ways the pendulum kept moving, and England grit his teeth, the anger that pumped though his veins growing and growing.

"Twat knows I'm looking and probably has an idea how," he growled.

The pendulum pointed towards an alley, the glowing and shivering motion of the charmed item showing that the energy was still great enough for it to pull on the spell, yet the actual man was still on the move. Yet, Arthur got a bad feeling and decided to park and head for the alley, having learnt long ago it was best to just trust his instincts.

Sometimes, though, he wished his instincts could be wrong.

"Ludwig!" called England, remembering to use his human name at the last moment.

While his and Germany's relationship was still "don't talk to me and I won't talk to you" at best, England couldn't stand seeing him down and bloodied, a huge gash in his side making it look like his intestines were in danger of spilling out.

A small gasp-like sound came from Ludwig's mouth, and he tried to push himself up, grunting when weight was put onto his left hand. Skin was torn at the knuckles, and two of his fingers were bent in ways they shouldn't be.

"I got you," England murmured, wrapping his coat around his waist as best he could before heaving him up.

It wasn't an easy process, getting Ludwig into the back of the car. He was too weak to do much, a deep wound in his side that would have killed a mortal.

Back at the manor, France had to hold Italy back when England brought in Germany and helped him to the long couch.

"No!" cried Feliciano. "_Doitsu_! _Doitsu_!"

Eyes cracking open, Germany gave his friend a look that made Arthur's chest ache. If Allen was such a monster to do this, England could only imagine how horrid the other counterparts were.

Once Germany's injuries were cared for, England started heading back to his car when Russia arrived.

The sky said evening grew nearer. Trying to catch Allen would probably only get harder, but if Ludwig had injured him as much as the tall man assured, then at least there was that advantage.

"_Privet_!" greeted the tall man that never seemed to overheat even in his beige trench coat and pale pink-purple scarf.

He wore that usual, innocent-seeming smile that often shot chills down England's spine. His amethyst eyes, however, narrowed in thought when he beheld the state of Arthur's door as well as the suitcases dumped onto the floor right inside by porcelain shards and other broken objects.

"I thought Mr. America does not come until tomorrow," said Ivan, tone low.

"_Our_ America is not due until tomorrow, yes," replied England, deciding Russia might as well know now.

Seeing as he had been the one that ended up getting summoned last time, he would end up being more apt to believe than some of the others might be.

Those narrowed eyes met England's, making the nation jump.

"What did you do?" he asked.

Having to fight to keep from breaking eye-contact, England answered, "I tried a summoning spell again, but I ended up summoning a man by the name of Allen. He looks to be another version of America from a different world. I need to find him and bring him back so I can banish him _back_ to that world."

Russia threw his suitcase into the house and reached into his trench coat and brought out a long, metal pipe. He grinned and twirled the pipe once.

"I will help!" Ivan proclaimed happily, and England decided it would be best not to argue.

He could use the help, but, dear God, _why Russia_?!

_Maybe God _is_ punishing me…,_ thought England as he and Russia headed for his car.

Once Allen's ribs felt fine enough for him to walk around without much difficulty, it was night, and he was starving. He was going to make a stop before getting something to eat, however.

Using the photo he'd swiped from England's place as a reference, Allen found the right shade of blond, or, close enough at least. He grabbed some peroxide as well.

The woman there said that with how dark his hair was, he'd have to bleach it first. She spoke quickly and had a very peppy voice, and while her eyes were brown rather than green—and it was obvious her hair color came from bleaching—she could have been a dead ringer for Natasha.

The thought made Allen smile, though he made sure to keep it sweet-looking as he listened to the blonde, and when he invited her out to dinner, she nearly swooned—also like Natasha, who had nearly fainted simply from her brother taking her hand.

"So why do you feel the need to dye your hair?" asked the woman—Jessica, Allen remembered—when their food arrived.

The restaurant wasn't fancy in the least, and there was some rowdiness at the bar, though it was easy to tune it out.

"Needed a change, I guess," Allen replied before taking a bite of his salad, the only thing he could order seeing as everything else contained meat.

Jessica tossed some of her long, pale hair behind one shoulder as she took up her glass of white wine. "Would you like to say why, or is that too personal?"

As she set her glass down, red rose to her otherwise-pale cheeks, doe-like eyes sparkling.

Allen waved her off. "Nah, it's fine." He took a swig of his beer. "Guess it's 'cause of my mom."

Jessica's eyes widened, plump lips parting slightly.

"Look a lot like her," Allen continued. "Sounds stupid…"

He looked away, shoulders drooping.

"N-no!" Jessica assured, nearly knocking her wine over when she grabbed Allen's hand. "No, it's not. I-I have no idea what went between your mum and you, but I never got on with my mum either. I can understand wanting to distance yourself, even in a small way."

Slowly looking back to meet Jessica's gaze through his sunglasses (he'd told her he was sensitive to light), letting his smile look strained and sad as he blinked quickly and created a couple of tears to slide down his cheeks.

"Thanks," he whispered, and from the look in his date's eyes, he knew she was his.

She even took him to her flat after dinner, helping him bleach and dye his hair. Apparently, she had recently procured a job at a salon, and she carried the bulk of the conversation during the process. Allen learned more of her life than he had learned of anyone's in just a few hours, but he had to admit, she had done a wonderful job with his hair. She was even able to get his eyebrows a similar shade, making him look like the guy in England's photo.

"So what's in your bag?" asked Jessica as she tossed the used towels in a basket in the corner of her bedroom. "I never asked."

"Prized possession," Allen replied, sitting on the foot of her bed, shoes off and one foot up so his arm could rest on his knee. "All I could bring with me."

Blushing again as she got that sad look on her face, Jessica inquired, "May I ask what happened between you and her?"

Silent for a while, Allen looked up to the ceiling. Just how thin were these walls? He could hear music not far from here, so he'd probably have to find a way to keep the bitch quiet.

"Threw me away," he murmured. "Me _and_ my brother."

"Brother?"

"Twin, but we don't look anything alike. Well, maybe the face some. We never got along, though."

That was an understatement. Pretty much every time they met, Allen was on the defense, James trying to bash his head in with that hockey stick of his. He'd even attached barbed wire to it—just for his twin.

Ah, brotherly love.

Jessica sat next to Allen but didn't touch him, looking like she had grown very aware of boundaries. "That's so sad."

He looked over at her, one hand moving towards the pocket holding his knife.

"I guess," he sighed, "but I never knew anything else."

He took her hand, and she looked like she was about to melt.

So she was one of those types that wanted to save the kicked puppy, huh?

She was almost too sweet for his favorite game.

Almost.

Allen had no clue how long it would be before England tracked him down, so he was going to have to work fast.

"_What're y_—!?"

On top of her, Allen brought out the knife and clutched her tongue, his sunglasses beginning to slip down the bridge of his nose.

Jessica's eyes widened greatly, and she made a gargling sound, eyes bugging out and body seizing when Allen detached her tongue from the rest of her mouth. She nearly threw him off, but with him on her torso and knees on her forearms, it was hard for her to move, especially with his strength.

Smiling, Allen held her tongue over her face, letting the blood drip over her alabaster skin and dye streaks of her hair.

"Thanks for the make-over, babe," said Allen in a low voice. "Now it's your turn."

There were moments Jessica tried to put up a fight, and unfortunately, there was a drawback to the tongue-method. She had ended up losing consciousness before any of the real fun could begin, so Allen just sighed and bashed her head in with his bat before taking it into the bathroom with him to clean up.

There were some T-shirts in Jessica's closet, looking like they'd belonged to boyfriends at one point in time. Allen took a red one and pulled his bomber jacket over it before packing up his beloved bat and heading out. He'd raided her drawers and cabinets, making it look like it could have been a robbery and she had been home at the wrong time, and, plus, he'd found some more cash to keep on him.

Running a hand through his now-dirty blond hair, Allen looked up at the dark sky and smiled.

Close to midnight, the pendulum led Arthur and Ivan to a large building, but the police were already there. A body was being carried into the back of the medical examiner's truck, and England's heart plunged into his stomach.

"This 'other America' did this?" asked Russia, tilting his head as he held onto the prayer stick.

"It looks like it," murmured Arthur. "He must be elsewhere by now, and who knows how many others he has killed…."

Ivan stayed quiet, and Arthur had to find other streets to go down, and he wished he knew how to update the spell to make it easier for when he was driving.

They searched for hours, Arthur having to make several stops for gas, but it seemed like Allen knew to keep on the move. It meant he wasn't getting much rest, but, then again, neither were England or Russia.

As light crested in the east, Arthur sent texts to Japan and China, telling them he would be in London and could pick them up from the airport. He didn't want to risk either of them running into Allen, but he wasn't going to even try and explain what had happened over the phone.

"Is this thing really working?" Russia questioned, looking at the prayer stick and pendulum he had been holding.

Sliding his mobile back into his pocket, Arthur nodded. "It's our best bet, but if he keeps moving around…"

Even when it came time to pick up Japan and China, Allen still had not been found.

"This is very nice, aru!" said China as he approached the car, his and Japan's suitcases going into the boot. He pulled out a bag from his pocket. "Would you like some candy, aru?"

"No, thanks," England replied politely, and China pouted for a moment as Japan gave his once-big brother a flat look.

He then turned to England and bowed. "Thank you for picking us up, England-san."

"It's really no problem—"

He noticed the two Asians' eyes widening as they noticed the man in the passenger seat of the black car.

"Hello!" Russia sang, offering a wave as he smiled guilelessly.

Out of the two, Japan looked the most incensed; his look towards England made him seem as though he thought Arthur had betrayed him.

"Don't worry, the drive will not be long," England promised.

The ride was very quiet, and the tension—mostly from Kiku—could have been cut with a knife.

"Mr. England," whispered Russia, the sudden noise making England jump.

Damn, when had he become so easily-scared?

The pendulum seemed to be pointing in the direction they were going, only angled somewhat. It looked like Allen was, still, on the move, but he was heading the same way as them.

Could that git _truly_ be…?

"What is that, aru?" asked China, leaning over to get a better look at the prayer stick.

"Something to help us find someone," answered England.

"Who are you trying to find, aru?"

"There," whispered Russia, and England spotted the familiar bomber jacket.

His stomach lurched upon seeing dirty blond hair rather than dark brown. There was a long, narrow bag slung across his back, though, and he had been unable to completely wash the blood off of his trainers.

"What is America-san doing?" Japan inquired, sounding puzzled. "He said he would not be here until later."

Allen stopped as the car pulled over, and his thin lips twisted into a smirk.

Ah, more people to have fun with. The big guy looked like Viktor, only with silver-blond hair and a smile on his mug, and the two Asian nations looked like Kuro and Li.

Only this Japan had a neutral look on his face rather than Kuro's signature scowl, plus his eyes were brown, but other than that, the two would be indistinguishable—and here was Allen, having to dye his hair and still needing to figure out how to deal with his eye color and sunglasses.

This China had his hair tied back, whereas Li usually didn't bother, and the widening of his dirt-brown eyes as he gazed at Allen showed a degree of innocence Li had lost centuries ago.

These guys would be easy pickings compared to their versions in Allen's world, but the Russia here had a pipe identical to Viktor's in his gloved hands, the smile obviously nowhere near guileless—some things were the same in every world, apparently.

"Aw…" Allen tilted his head in mock-hurt as he unzipped his bag. "Four against one? Come on, that can't be fair."

China was the first to speak: "America, what are you talking about, aru? And what is with that bat, aru?"

"China-san…"

Japan's voice was barely above a whisper, dark eyes calculating as he took Allen in.

Straightening, China obviously heard something in Japan's tone, his own eyes beginning to narrow as England opened his mouth to speak:

"You honestly cannot believe you can go against the four of us and get to walk away."

Allen could not help but guffaw, the look on England's face showing he had not expected this kind of reaction. By him, Japan and China got into stances for fighting, and Russia gave his pipe a whirl, the metal whistling through the air.

"_You _obviously have no idea what kind of shit I put up with in _my_ world!" said Allen, still laughing.

None of them would be able to understand. From what this world seemed like, they all had it made. They all had it made and probably _still_ squabbled over idiotic, trivial things.

It made Allen sick.

He needed a nice game to unwind, and these four would do just fine.

It wasn't surprising the Russian jumped in first, swinging the pipe down in a downward arc that was simple to block and evade. He was strong, but it came from throwing his bulk around. Allen was stronger as well as more agile.

He'd had to be, and every villain knew how to search out the heroes' weaknesses as quickly as possible. He couldn't assume it would be the same as Viktor's, which sucked, because it had taken three bullets to the stomach and several others to the shoulder, leg, and arms before he was finally able to figure out how to get _that_ bastard on his knees.

And he'd rather forget what had happened with that pipe.

Japan and China jumped in at the same time, going in at different angles, but England had been rounding towards the back to take Allen by surprise.

It _almost_ worked.

With Russia coming in with the pipe again, it was a close call jumping away, Allen having to move at a different angle than he had originally wanted. Still, he kept the movement fluid, bat coming around in a sideways arc, angled downwards to try and get China in the knees.

The Asian nation saw the move coming just in time and jumped out of the way, Japan quickly able to maneuver and help China by leaping at Allen's open side.

He jumped out of the way just in time but had to dodge both England's left hook and China's inward circular kick, which would have gotten him in the arm and force him to drop his bat.

China's heel skated down his upper arm, making his bomber jacket shift as he moved away, ducking and spinning to get out of range of Japan's hook kick and Russia's damn pipe.

Japan had to move quickly to avoid the pipe as well, scowling at Russia as if he'd nearly gotten him on purpose.

Ah, there it was. Allen smirked at this discovery. He hadn't expected to find a weakness so early in the fight, but his ribs still ached from the bout with Germany, so he wasn't complaining on having the game end earlier than expected.

Dancing around England and China, Allen was able to block Japan's strike, thankful the man didn't have a katana with him.

Again, the now-blond man's scars began to ache, and even though this guy's eyes weren't red as his own, he still saw Kuro's face. That sneer as he spat in Allen's face, saying he held no honor and deserved punishment.

If Allen wasn't immortal…

A villain was supposed to channel his anger, but seeing that bastard's face was like having spikes driven through his body.

"Fucking bastard!" he roared, barely feeling something clip him in the shoulder as he grasped Japan's arm at the last second, surprise only flashing over the Asian's eyes for a split second.

He started a new move, but these weren't too different from Kuro's, and Allen had learned since then.

He moved with the motion before catching Japan off-balance and bringing his bat down. The nails tore at cloth and skin from the shoulder to just above the belly button when a pipe got him in the gut, sending him several feet back.

_Shit!_ Allen thought, one arm over the spot that had connected with the water pipe as he lunged for his bat.

China kicked him in the side as England went for the bat, and Allen managed to grab China by the ankle and yank him forward so that he fell hard onto his back, other leg still underneath. He let out a scream, and Allen scowled as he got to his feet and dodged another one of Russia's swings, needing to get his bat away from the Brit.

"Get yer mitts offa it!" he howled, dodging Japan only to nearly get hit by China, who was gritting his teeth, hurt leg shaking.

Nearly getting his arm broken by Russia's pipe, Allen danced around England got his hands on the bat, sunglasses slipping down his nose. He didn't care about the game anymore. He'd already gotten his blood pumping. He just wanted his bat back.

"_This is for abandoning me!" Allen shrieked, pulling the bow string back._

_The white men had many wonderful, metal weapons, and he had melted several of those balls for the muskets down to make special arrow heads._

_The woman with long, dark brown hair and crimson eyes howled in agony as the arrow found a home just above her crotch, metal stakes keeping her arms and legs against the wide trunk of the ancient oak in a pose like that man-god the white men worshiped._

_Another arrow was readied, aimed for her stomach. "This is for trying to have me _killed_!"_

James still hadn't forgiven him. The bastard was an idiot, angry about a woman that had dumped them in the wilderness, knowing that while they couldn't die, they would have suffered greatly for _years_ before finally being found.

And if that hadn't been bad enough…

Blocking the memories, Allen threw England off, grabbed the bag while dodging another kick from Japan as well as a blow from Russia, and ran off.

There were woods not far from the road, and while Russia came after him, Japan had been losing blood throughout the latter half of the fight. China was also in no condition to run, and England was probably trying to get them into his car if he wasn't after him as well.


End file.
